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“That your way of telling me some asshat dipped out, and I’m needed to fill in?” I holler back as I rinse my hair.
“Your reply doesn’t dignify a response, Locke,” he yells back.
“Oh no? Why’s that?” I ask, amused.
“Because you’re that asshat who’s about to dip out.”
Everyone within earshot starts laughing, including me.
* * *
Press ready, dressed in black pants and a gray button-up, I tap on Coach’s open door to grab his attention.
He looks up, appearing confused as to why I’m standing in his office doorway.
“You asked me?—”
“Shit, right. The ankle. After press, have the doc check it out.”
“It’s fine. I’m?—”
“And don’t mouth off on camera about the fight at O’Donnell’s or his?—”
“Using the game as a method of assault? Yeah, I’ll let that go.”
“He pulls that shit tomorrow, and we’ll get the commissioner involved.”
“Tomorrow’s the last game against the Mavericks in our three-game series, and there’s no fucking way we’re losing against them. When we win tomorrow, the shit’s not gonna matter.”
“You want me to contact them?—”
“Fuck no. We’d look like bitch babies.”
“Jags are no bitch babies,” he says with a growl, and I have to hold back a laugh.
I’m standing here, waiting for him to say something—anything—when he finally looks up. “Press, Locke.”
“On it, Coach.”
I turn and see Amias walking toward the exit and jog up to him. Once out of everyone’s earshot, I ask, “Coach? Foes he seem okay?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Spacing out in a big way.”
He shakes his head. “Haven’t noticed anything different.”
Nodding to the press room, I ask, “Keep an eye out?”
He lifts his chin. “Brisa the Barbie and Tarzan are waiting on you.”
“You fuckers really do all sleep in the same room every night, don’t you?”
He laughs. “Hell no. It’s Sunday dinners.”
His grandmother, Josephina—Momma Joe, as they call her—hooks her arm in his. “No longer always on Sunday, but we make time. Tell Brisa to hurry and meet us upstairs, will you, Leland?”
“Yeah,”—I nod—“will do.”
